


A Night at the Theatre

by raiyana



Series: Modern Middle-Earth [8]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Gothmog is so done, Mutual Pining, Nerdanel and Fëanor ARE NOT subtle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-15
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2021-01-31 10:24:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21444703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana
Summary: Fëanor and Gothmog go to the theatre for the opening of Amrod's play... and so does Nerdanel.Related to chapter 6 of "Urban Gentrification" and chapter 6 of"Among Ivory Towers"
Relationships: Fëanor | Curufinwë & Sons of Fëanor, Fëanor | Curufinwë/Nerdanel, Nerdanel & Sons of Fëanor
Series: Modern Middle-Earth [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1031069
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	A Night at the Theatre

“Do you think she saw us?” Fëanor whispers once they’ve found their seats. 

“Did you want her _not_ to?” Gothmog wonders, raising an eyebrow. Fëanor’s clothes are not exactly subtle – crimson silk with gold detailing and embroidery along the collar and sleeves – nor is Gothmog himself an inconspicuous person with his height and bulk and the flaming red hair. 

“No!” Fëanor protests, glancing up at the box where his wife sits, dressed in a pretty blue dress and flanked by his sisters-in-law. “But I…”

Gothmog sighs.

“She knows we’re here, and so does Amrod. Which is the important thing.” If Fëanor is going to be like this all night he really should have brought a glass from the bar with him before the bell tolled.

“Well, yes,” Fëanor agrees, “but _still_.”

“If you want to see it from up there with her holding hands, why don’t you try _talking_ to the woman?” Gothmog asks, mildly exasperated. The separation never sat well with Fëanor, but it can be hard to take back angry words, he knows, and particularly for two so stubborn and proud people as Fëanor and Nerdanel. 

“I don’t!” Fëanor protests, determinedly staring at the empty stage and settling heavier in the plush velvet seat. 

Gothmog knows he’s lying – and so does Fëanor. Giving his companion a gimlet stare, Gothmog remains silent. Fëanor doesn’t speak for the moment, staring at his son’s name in the printed programme – Gothmog would lay odds on it getting framed and hung on a wall somewhere in Fëanor’s sprawling house. He likes the guy – they’re been friends for long years, really, and more since he convinced Fëanor to join him in the construction company instead of resting on his dot-com billionaire laurels.

“I want her to want me to want to be up there with her,” Fëanor finally settles on, but the lights dim before Gothmog can figure out an appropriate response to that tangle of thought and the first player appears on stage.

He has seen Nimrodel perform before – particularly enamoured by her in _By a Silver Stream_ – but this role seems almost made for her, her strong-but-gentle voice flowing through the opening song of the musical like golden honey for his ears. He idly wonders if Maeglin would like to take in the show – or if he considers theatre to be too highbrow for him. 

* * *

“He _came._” Nerdanel breathes the words into thin air, heavy with the excited hush of a new play. One hand nervously rises, patting at her hair to ensure than the pins are still where Eärwen put them, keeping her heavy mass of curls from tumbling down. 

“Amrod did say he promised – and look, Mr Balrogath is there, too,” Anairë nods peaceably towards the recognisable profile of her hus– _ex_-husband and his business partner. “For his faults as a husband, Fëanor does cherish your children.”

On Nerdanel’s other side, Eärwen studies the audience still milling about on the floor with a moue of annoyance. She is less inclined to forgiveness than Anairë when it comes to Fëanor – Nerdanel thinks it a remnant of that time Fëanor and the boys capsized her father’s favourite sailboat. No one ever accused the Swanns of being forgiving, after all. 

“He is a devoted father,” Nerdanel agrees. However much they might fight with each other – and when did their passion turn so sour? Leaping flames burnt to bitter ash in her mouth – Fëanor always made certain that the children know they were loved. “And it will mean much to Amrod that he is here.” It meant something to _her_, too, though she was not quite willing to admit it, looking down at the familiar dark hair flowing over crimson-clad shoulders. 

_I always loved that colour on him_, she muses, watching him lower himself into his seat like she hasn’t seen him do the same thousands of times before, strong leanness moving beneath cloth that does not conceal the breadth of the shoulders she has often clung to in ardour. He still has it, that indefinable spark of the young man – barely out of his teens – that he had been, the one responsible for their eldest being born only a scant few months after the wedding. It still resonates with its mate in her breast, and for a moment Nerdanel thinks she can’t breathe for wanting him.

And then the moment fades, and she notices the slightly gaunt look of him, the unhappy lines on his forehead, knowing they echo the ones beside her own mouth, reaching up to touch one of them gently.

She was never bitter, before, not when his work stole him from her side more often than not, not when he uprooted their entire family and moved across the globe – not even when he had called the business _done_ and ripped them all up all over again to return home to the estranged family left behind.

She, too, had felt loved… then.

And still a large part of her wants to sit beside him, hold his hand as they watch their youngest step onto the stage, excitement and pride mingling in their chests. 

But she is up here, and the hand gripping her own belongs to Anairë, not to her erstwhile husband. 

Nerdanel tells herself that is for the best. 

“There he is!” 

Curufin’s voice – so like his father’s she can hear Fëanor speak the words, sharing the same breathless joy she feels at the sight of Amrod in his costume – comes over her shoulder, his hand wrapped around the back of her seat. 

Nerdanel smiles, reaching back over her shoulder to caress Curufin’s cheek. Amras is leaning against the banister trying to see _everything_, and for a moment Nerdanel’s heart feels full to bursting. 

But Fëanor is not with them, and his absence is a wound in the structure of their family that she doesn’t know how to mend.

* * *

“She looks so lovely in that dress – it’s new, I’m sure,” Fëanor says, mostly to himself, taking advantage of Gothmog’s bulk to spy on his erstwhile wife with some attempt at discretion. “And she’s wearing those hair pins – you know, the ones I made for her, the gold ones…” He trails off at that, and Gothmog thrusts a glass of wine into his hand to avoid discovering whether his next musing would involve picking those pins out of Nerdanel’s tumbling red locks and scattering them on the floor of their bedroom.

The Finweans have never had bedroom trouble, he thinks, though he wish he knew rather _less_ of what has occurred between them over the years. 

Spotting a familiar head of hair, Gothmog opens his mouth – lovesick Glorfindel is slightly more tolerable than lovesick Fëanor, if only for the novelty – but the blonde is staring daggers at someone.

Almost reluctantly, Gothmog follows his eyes, trying not to laugh.

So that is Erestor – it must be, Glorfindel has no other reason to be glaring at Amras that way – huh… Well, he’s good-looking, at least. 

Of course, Amras looks a little too pleased with Erestor’s attention for Glorfindel’s peace of mind, but the guy is as aro/ace as they come, in Gothmog’s opinion, interested only in his rugby career and Amrod’s theatre gig, with his degree coming a distant second. Gothmog likes him as a student; always focused and never whiny, something he inherited from his father even though the twins resemble Nerdanel to an almost startling degree. 

“How long will you keep up this pretence?” he wonders, though he doesn’t expect an answer and isn’t surprised not to get one as Fëanor tosses back his wine.

“Let’s talk about _your_ love life instead, hmm” Fëanor asks, giving him a gimlet eye. 

Gothmog feels a little warm. “Nothing to tell… yet,” he says. “But I’m hopeful.” 

* * *

Amras had disappeared to talk to some man Nerdanel didn’t know, standing beside Curufin who was as attentive as a young man who kept looking around in case someone who wasn’t there would make their presence known could be. 

“We saw your father earlier,” Nerdanel soothed, accepting a glass of champagne, “though I’d guess he’s hiding somewhere.”

“Father?” Curufin asked, blinking at her. 

_Oh_, Nerdanel thought, _and who **else **were you looking for, my son?_

“He was in the second row,” she replied, filing away the notion for later; Curufin so rarely showed interest in anyone who wasn’t family – she wanted to ask Fëanor who was on his mind; he spent more time than she did with their son these days, but of course she could not. 

“Ah – well, he did promise to show,” Curufin murmured, “and Mr Balrogath promised me he’d make sure they got here on time.” 

“You’re a good brother, Curvo,” Nerdanel smiled, sipping her champagne. “Escort me back to our box?” 

“Of course, mother,” Curufin nodded, dutifully offering her his arm; Eärwen and Anairë had disappeared in the direction of the ladies’ room but Nerdanel did not feel a pressing physical need to join them.

And if she was in her box, she would see Fëanor return to his seat, that suit – probably a Moryo, she knew – tailored beautifully to outline his fit upper body and toned legs and –

_Valar help me, I’m perving on my own husband. Ex-husband. Damn it._


End file.
